Twelve Months
by ALittleLion
Summary: One year. Twelve months. Three hundred and sixty five days. Rachel Berry thought she had it all, but when fate puts her directly in the path of one Quinn Fabray, she learns that she was missing out on the biggest gift of all: life.
1. January

**A/N: Hello, readers! This is a little pet project of mine that I've been working on when my thoughts start to become stale. I'm one of those writers who can't just have one project going, otherwise my focus will be completely diverted, and that would just be terrible. ANYWAY, this fic has a definite pathway: twelve chapters. One for each month of the year, because it takes place over the course of a year. What I have planned for this story: this story will put you though the gamut of emotions. I apologize in advance. However, writing this story has made me fall more in love with both the Faberry pairing (which has become my solid OTP) along with Quinn and Rachel as individuals. I hope that, in reading this piece, all of you will fall in love with them as well, and maybe fall in love with love a little. So, thanks for giving another one of my little brain children a chance, and please: I'd love to hear your thoughts. And, naturally, I don't own any of these characters. I'm just playing with them and taking creative liberties for your enjoyment.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em><em>_**January**_

I remember it was a Monday morning. The day was the easiest to remember, because it was January second. My year had, quite literally, just begun.

I was on the way to the set of my latest film, with the shooting schedule from Hell, and knew that I had a long, _long_ week ahead of me. My career had grown from stage to screen in what seemed like a matter of minutes, and I was still overwhelmed with how quickly I had transitioned. I knew that I was destined for the spotlight. I had known from the beginning, from the very first cognizant minutes of my life. My fathers knew, and even though most of the people in my tiny hometown of Lima, Ohio probably resented me for it, they knew, too.

Rachel Berry was born to be a star.

It hadn't come without lots of hard work, with blood, sweat, and tears, but I had finally made it. Everywhere I went, I tried to stay humble and remember my roots. I had, after all, started from what most A-List actors deemed "humble beginnings." Although, I had never seen Broadway as small potatoes; for the longest time, it had been my ultimate, fondest dream. I starred in a small production off-Broadway, then ended up taking that production to Broadway, where it was an overnight sensation. Within two years, I was a well-known name amongst the theater world. I was the dream ingenue: a rising, fresh-faced star. Six months later, I was up for a Tony award nomination, and even though I didn't win, it was still a major foot in the door.

I continued with my original production for another year before it closed on Broadway, and went into smaller touring companies who would keep the role I originated, my legacy, alive. I thought that I would continue with Broadway, find another, larger part to make my own. Something well-known, something iconic.

Then the movie offers started, and my phone didn't stop ringing for two days.

My agent was ecstatic.

My parents wept with joy.

My first film was a wildly successful romantic comedy, and I was slowly becoming a household name.

Then, just after my twenty-third birthday, I got the script for a new movie and fell in love.

It was dark, edgy, dramatic: everything I had been encouraged to stay away from since my Broadway days. My agent was hoping to create me as a innocent, charming, sweet girl from a small town who was in the big leagues. They wanted me to play the role of Hollywood sweetheart. But I wanted a challenge.

I _always_ wanted a challenge.

And too many times, in looking for these challenges, I bit off more than I could chew.

My agent had instructed me against doing things like going into coffee shops in the middle of downtown Los Angeles to get my own coffee. I had "people" to do that for me nowadays. But, in wanting to keep with my humility, I donned a pair of dark sunglasses, a sunhat, and wandered in on my own. I was completely untethered, in need of my morning espresso fix.

The coffee shop hadn't been crowded that day, which made me feel slightly more comfortable. Perhaps there was a chance that none of those six people inside would know who I was, but as time passed, it was becoming less and less likely. However, I had decided long ago that if I ever got famous, I would not be one of _those _stars who was too busy to sign an autograph for an adoring fan.

I walked to the counter and placed my order, lowering my sunglasses to do so, and noted the recognition in my barista's face immediately. She smiled at me, but pursed her lips.

"I, um... you're..." she said, stumbling over her words. I returned with a demure, friendly smile.

"Yes, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't make a huge deal. I'm trying to be incognito. But I'll sign something for you?"

I didn't mind signing autographs for fans, really I didn't, but I was also without my first dose of caffeine, and knew that I was on a bit of a time constraint. Having a group of fans mob me on a Monday morning wasn't close to ideal on any level, even if I was reputably kind to my fans.

My barista scurried behind the counter for a moment, then retrieved a napkin and a pen and slid it discreetly across the counter. I grinned, then picked up the pen in my hand.

"Who do I need to make this out to?" I asked quietly.

"Emily," she replied. "I'm a _huge _fan."

I smiled again. They _always_ were, especially when they were about to get my autograph. That was one of the first things I learned during my ascent to fame.

"All right, Emily," I said, putting my usual signature along with a neatly scrawled "To Emily" above it. I capped the autograph off with a star, because stars had always been my metaphor, even before I was one. "How much for the coffee?"

"Oh, no, Miss Berry, it's on me," she stammered, fingering the napkin like it was a golden ticket when I slid it back across the counter.

"Well, thank you," I said genuinely. That was another rule of Hollywood fame: never expect to get freebies and handouts, but don't be surprised when you've given them anyway. People _want _to be hospitable, and will go out of their way to make you feel special, but don't take advantage. That will give you a bad reputation. "You've certainly made my morning much better."

"I... you're... I'll go make your coffee," Emily stammered again, tucking the napkin gingerly into her apron pocket, then moving away from the counter to the espresso machine and starting my drink order. I moved aside, tucking myself into a corner that seemed to be out of the eyesight of most of the other patrons.

I took out my phone, then checked my Tweets to see if there were any updates.

I decided that my fans could use a little bit of an update into my world, and posted a quick, 140 character blurb about my morning coffee. It was banal, at best, but I knew that people would find it entertaining. Being entertaining and making people love me to an obsessive degree was essentially my job.

"Vanilla soy latte," Emily said quietly, sliding my drink across the counter. I put three dollars in her tip jar, raised my cup in a quick salute, then tucked my phone away and put my sunglasses back on. I was ten steps from the door when a figure stepped in my way. I paused, clutching my coffee close so it wouldn't spill, then looked up.

A girl stared back at me, an amused smile on her face, and I was taken back by the vivid, swirling colors of her hazel eyes when I lowered my sunglasses. She was young, younger than me, though perhaps not by much. Her cheeks were pale, which was strange for Californians, especially when coupled with her sun-kissed blonde hair that was maintained in neat, choppy layers which framed her face nicely. She had a willowy, yet still strong figure, and most importantly, she _wasn't _moving.

I smiled brightly, giving her my best Rachel Berry camera smile and turning up my charm.

Probably another fan.

I waited for her to speak, knowing that sometimes, when fans were in this position, it took them a moment to get over the initial shock of being in the presence of someone famous.

I waited another moment, and although I tried to keep it in place, my smile started to fade, so I took a quick sip of my coffee, hoping that the first jolt of espresso on my taste buds would liven me up.

"You're Rachel Berry," the girl mused.

"I am she."

"I'm a huge fan," she continued.

Surprise, surprise.

"Well, I'm always happy to meet my fans. Especially huge ones," I chirped, staring into her eyes a little deeper, realizing all too late that they were slowly sucking me in. They weren't glazed over, but they weren't alive with excitement. They were enigmatic. Intoxicating. They were... different, somehow. Different in ways that even I, with my extensive vocabulary, couldn't saddle with a proper adjective.

It was odd, and kind of pleasantly surprising how underwhelmed she seemed. Perhaps she was also an actress, trying to downplay her inner joy. I had many theories, and all of them raced through my head at once, causing me to lose myself deep inside my head until she spoke again.

"I don't mean to be a giant road block. I'm sure you have a very busy schedule. You're probably on your way to shoot, right? The new movie? _Watchtower_, right?"

I smiled and nodded, but needed another sip of my drink to get through. That information had barely been released. I was surprised that she already knew the name of my new project, then felt slightly unnerved. Although my friends and I sometimes joked that it was only a matter of time before I had a stalker or weirdly obsessed fan come to light, I had never wanted or expected it to be _this _soon.

"Yes, right. Monday morning shoots," I said, trying to be friendly and keep conversation existent, but brief. I didn't want to seem rushed and rude, so I decided that slightly aloof was the best manner of approach. "That's why I have this."

I raised my coffee cup, and she nodded.

"People are already talking, you know. They're saying that _Watchtower _is going to be completely different than your other movie," the girl parroted, her eyes finally lighting up with a glimmer of excitement. But only a glimmer; it was brief, almost like she was holding herself back. "It's more like what you did on Broadway. Which was _magnificent_. I wore out my first copy of the Original Cast soundtrack, had to buy a second one, and I'm afraid that one is about to give up on me any day now."

I laughed, and this time it was genuine. There was something so honest about this girl, so innocent and unassuming that it was oddly attractive on a level that went deeper than her flawless complexion. Granted, her looks were certainly classically attractive, but when you're constantly surrounded by beautiful people, and people who are, arguably, the _most _beautiful people, you start to look at other things when you're face-to-face with someone.

"Don't tell on me, but sometimes, I really, _really_ miss Broadway," I confessed. I wasn't sure why I was confessing anything to this strange girl, but I was. And I continued. "Although don't get me wrong, I'm so, _so _blessed to be here, and I love Hollywood."

"It's too much sunshine," the girl responded immediately. "I've always lived in California, but I got to visit New York for the first time when I was seventeen. I kind of fell in love with it, actually. I got to have three days of fog, and rain, and everyone was griping about the weather, but I thought it was marvelous."

"How old are you now?"

"Twenty-one."

"You'll get back to New York someday," I said. "And it's not like California is immune to rainy weather."

"I wish I could have gone to New York while your show was on Broadway," the girl said wistfully. "I bet you're incredible live. I've always loved musical theater. I'm the only one who does in my family. So I've heard a lot of shows, and a _lot_ of singers, and there's something different about you. When you sing, people _feel _it."

"That's very sweet of you to say."

Eloquent, too. Most fans couldn't string that much of a sentence together with such almost zen-like calm as this girl did. It had me a bit shaky on my feet, that she was able to talk to me in a way that suggested we might have had many conversations before. Like we were old friends, or something.

"It's honest," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. I watched her clutch the denim messenger bag that was across her body, fiddling with the strap and showing the first sign of nerves. "This year, I made a resolution not to do anything that I would regret. No lies, no missed opportunities. Just living. It's important."

"That's a lofty resolution. How do you know you'll be able to keep it?"

"I have to," she said with a sideways smile that sent an odd feeling directly to my stomach. Her eyes reached the floor for a moment, then snapped back up to mine with such a recoil that I felt the intensity of her gaze all over me. I breathed in, then took another placating sip of my coffee, finding that I wouldn't be able to enjoy this cup in solitude like I wanted. This coffee was a crutch. I'd have to get another cup at a different coffee shop later. "I'm determined."

"Best of luck to you," I replied. Suddenly, I felt the urge to leave. I felt like I had to leave before I stayed too long. I had always been one to listen to my gut, and this time, my intuition was fighting a war with my body, with my senses, with every inch of me, and I felt that this girl was something entirely new and different. She was an uncontrollable substance, a phantom, and something that I did not need in my life, even if it was for a moment longer. And also, when I was pulling a desperate attempt not to look into those effortlessly soulful eyes of hers, I caught a glimpse of the clock and was mortified to see that I was running fifteen minutes behind schedule. "I really, really have to get going, though. I don't want to piss off my director so soon into filming."

"I understand," the girl replied in a way that was almost somber. She looked down at the floor again, kicked at it a little with the toe of her shoe, and the way her shoulders slumped every so slightly sent a rush of guilt toward me. I knew that my call time wasn't for another hour, and even in LA traffic, it would only take me twenty minutes to get to the studio. "I don't want to be greedy, I should feel fortunate that I even got to meet you. I've been wishing and hoping for this for a long time. I mean, I always figured that it would be possible, since we're in the same city, but I bet most normal people in this city hope to run into their favorite star. I'm one of the lucky ones. I just wish I had more time to, you know, talk to you."

Most fans just wanted my autograph, or a picture.

Most fans didn't want to have actual conversations with me. And when they did, it was usually a conversation that considered of a lot of awkward stumbling and voids that I had to carry, essentially leading them through the entire thing. Once, I had a meet-and-greet with a contest winner that was quite literally the longest thirty minutes of my life because the poor girl couldn't stop shaking and squealing long enough to just treat me like a regular person. Deep down, even if famous people don't always act that way, we're just like everyone else. We get tired of our names being screamed and random people acting like they're going to pass out at the mere sight of us.

It's so hard to make friends the regular way, so we stick to our own kind.

One thing I missed more than Broadway, more than New York, was the ability to just sit down and connect with someone completely new. Someone who wanted to get to know me and not obsess over my career, my fame, and my success.

"I could give you an autograph, if you'd like?"

My agent would have murdered me. Stars don't push their autographs on people. We sign only upon request, and even then, it's customary to be too busy to dole out a few on occasion. For the image. Always for the image.

Hollywood is all about "the image."

"No," she said. "You have to go, it's fine. I'm just glad fate decided our paths should cross. You're actually really nice."

Her words hit an odd chord within me. Was she suggesting that I might _not _actually be really nice?

I always tried to make time for my fans. Always. Even when my agent and PR people told me not to.

"Did you think I wouldn't be? I mean, I know actors commonly get bad reputations, but I love my fans. I really do," I defended. She grinned, then laughed lightly, and looked at me with such gentility in her eyes, I felt like she could literally knock me over with a feather.

"No, please don't take that the wrong way," she said softly. It was so soft that I wondered if her voice wasn't always that way. Gentle, sweet, and so soft that I had to really strain my ears in order to hear it. I found myself wanting to hear it, and wanting to hear _every _word she said. "I just... it's silly, and you have to go. I don't want to be the reason that Rachel Berry is late for filming."

"I'll wait," I said instantly. "Tell me."

"It's my mom," she said. "You came up in conversation the other day, and we actually discussed this kind of situation, actually. A hypothetical, 'what if I ran into you in some random place' type of situation. You should know that I defended your honor and said that if I ever _did _meet you, that I had no doubts that you'd be really kind to me. My mom thinks that Hollywood stars are all incredibly fake and that you'd probably be a real... b-word in the, I don't know, real world, I guess."

She kicked the toe of her shoe against the floor again, then chuckled nervously.

"Your mom thought I'd be a bitch?" I asked hotly.

"I was going to say that, but then it kind of became awkward to curse in front of you, so I decided against it."

I crossed my arms, awkwardly realizing at the last minute that I was still holding coffee and fumbled for a second. I managed not to spill it, but only because she reached out with some sort of crazy lightning reflexes and steadied my hand. Our hands touched, and she grinned sheepishly, then pulled her hand back like she had been bitten.

"Um," she said, withdrawing immediately and crossing her own arms. "You almost spilled your... it could have been bad and I... sorry."

"No, it's okay," I said, hoping that she would go back to being how she was and _not _turn into one of those wordless, stumbling fans who couldn't talk to me. "What's your name?"

"My name?"

"Yes, your name," I pressed gently. I didn't want to spook her. It was almost like she was some sort of beautiful, mystical creature the way she stared at me, wide-eyed and completely glowing. The sunlight hit her face and reflected just so, and for a moment, I wondered why this girl _wasn't_ in movies, because she was stunning_._

"Quinn," she replied, stumbling a little, then pausing awkwardly like she had just been reprimanded for forgetting her manners and continued in a ramble. "Fabray, because I have a last name, too, obviously. Gosh. So, I'm Quinn Fabray. I'd ask for yours, but I already know it."

I laughed again, then smiled at her. I couldn't help it. Now, all my smiles were genuine, completely natural, and felt like I had been smiling at this girl all my life. I only smiled this way around my closest friends.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Quinn Fabray," I said, offering her my hand for a handshake after my coffee was secured in the other. She stared at it, then at me for a moment, and tilted her head sideways in a manner that spoke volumes all on its own. If expressions had snapshots, this would be, unquestionably, the "you can't be serious" look.

"It's... it's beyond... this is unreal," Quinn said, then finally took my hand, barely squeezed it, and shook it before dropping it and tucking her hands deeply into the pockets of her cargo shorts.

"Well, you be sure to tell your mother that I'm not a bitch," I replied with a cheeky grin.

"Oh, I will," Quinn said excitedly, finally unable to contain herself. It was glorious to watch. "She'll probably never hear the end of this."

I looked at the clock again. Twenty minutes behind schedule, and still...

"Do you happen to have a pen or something?"

I was breaking the rules, again. Especially now, when she had turned down my autograph the first time, even though she had done it politely.

"Um..." Quinn faltered for a moment, then held up a finger, a signal to pause, and rummaged through her bag. She withdrew a black, fine-point Sharpie and handed it to me, her hand slightly shaky when it became closer in proximity to my skin. "What for?"

I slipped the jacket off my coffee cup and awkwardly braced it against the cup, signing the jacket with a secret message, then balanced my cup in one hand. I handed the pen and the jacket to Quinn with my free hand and grinned knowingly as she quietly read the message.

"Oh, she's going to _love _this."

"You think so?" I asked smugly.

My inscription was simple, but completely effective in my eyes, and apparently in Quinn's as well.

_To Quinn's mother: your daughter is absolutely delightful, and we had the best conversation over coffee._

It was punctuated by my signature and a star.

"It's not completely true, though," Quinn said, biting her bottom lip and looking at me with an unreadable expression on her face. I so badly wanted to know what it meant.

"Well, she doesn't have to know that," I replied. "Surely you can carry out the charade."

"I don't want to break my resolution," Quinn continued, the somber tone returning to her voice again for a split second before she brushed it off with a smile. "Not by lying to my mother."

"Well... we did _kind of _have coffee. You saved my coffee," I replied, grasping at straws to make it okay somehow. Or at least find some halfway bridge of respectable white lie that would make her comfortable. "Semantics."

"We could actually have coffee," Quinn suggested suddenly, catching me off guard.

"What?"

Her hands pressed deeper into her pockets, and she swayed in her spot again, continuing to chew on her bottom lip for another moment's pause before speaking again. When she spoke the second time, it was confident, almost forceful, but not overly brazen. It still held that air of quiet gentility that for me, would always be directly related back to her.

"You live here, so do I. You obviously know this coffee shop exists, and I come here often, so... maybe you could tell me when your schedule isn't insanely busy and stop in a second time. I could be convinced to join you."

"Quinn, I..."

"I fully expect you to say no," Quinn returned, a challenge in her eyes. I caught it immediately, then lost it when she forced it down and started to downplay her emotions again. "I just had to ask, because if I didn't, well, that would be a regret of mine, and it's only the second day of the year."

"I appreciate the offer," I said, not exactly sure the direction I was heading. It seemed like a valid start, and gave me room to roam further. "I really do. You're... different than most people I've met."

"Thank you," Quinn said, returning back to her quiet, dulcet tone and blushing a little, finally adding some color to her porcelain skin. "Thanks for not thinking I'm a complete creep, too. Also for the autograph. I'm sure my mother will treasure it. Although, she could end up selling it on eBay when you're up for an Oscar nod. I can't make any promises."

"If you're feeling left out, I can find another coffee jacket and write you up one of your own," I offered again, for the second time. I really was pushing the limits of decorum. It was almost shameful. Borderline, at least.

"Please don't take this as rude, but I'd rather just have the memories," Quinn replied gently. "This has been... one of my fondest, even if it was shorter than I'd have hoped, in my ideal situation of meeting you. It's still more than most of your adoring fans get, I realize, but... you know."

I nodded and cradled my coffee cup in my hands, content to just look at this girl a moment longer. She inhaled deeply, then nodded her head, as if she was psyching herself up and readying herself for something.

"I've already kept you for too long," Quinn said with that same sideways smile from before. "Just so you know, you've made one of my dreams come true today, Rachel."

She smiled at me one more time, then tucked the coffee jacket into her messenger bag and spun on her heel, heading for the door. I watched her walk away, and felt frozen. This was just a random person. A random fan, another resident of a city of millions. People constantly met others in the daily shuffle that was life, but this seemed like more than just a random meeting in a coffee shop.

I had never really believed in fate until I almost let Quinn Fabray walk out of that door, and subsequently, out of my life forever.

I _almost_ let her walk away.

Truthfully, I didn't even let her get as far as touching her hand to the door handle.

"Hey, Quinn?" I called, much too loudly for someone trying to remain invisible and out of the public eye. She turned, blonde hair tossing as she moved, and her eyes met mine again. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Yeah?"

I took three steps, three very large steps toward her and smiled, tilting my head up to look more directly into those mesmerizing eyes.

There really was something different about her.

I couldn't put my finger on it. I wanted to try. I wanted the _chance_ to try.

Maybe it was the way that she treated me like a normal person, not _the _Rachel Berry.

Maybe it was just the way she called me Rachel, not Rachel Berry or Miss Berry or any of the other names that people used to address me.

Maybe it was her smile: gentle, kind, and possessing the uncanny ability to strip my defenses that I had needed to create in order to survive in the rough and tumble world of show business.

Or maybe it was the way her eyes seemed to look right through me, like we had done this before, in another life.

I had never believed in that sort of thing, either. I tried to stay away from things that made me feel as though my life was too far out of my control. I was so used to everything being just so and just right, so I didn't need some sort of otherworldly, outside figure changing the game. I rather liked the progression of my game, especially where most recent events were concerned.

And yet...

"I'm pretty much booked for shooting this entire week and I have an interview with a magazine on Saturday, but I always try to keep my Sundays open. So, if you're able, I'll probably be needing coffee from this particular shop this Sunday at say, ten o' clock?"

"I'll be here," Quinn breathed out.

"Great," I said with a smile. "You can bring your mother, too, if you'd like."

"No," Quinn replied. "She's not cool enough to have coffee with Rachel Berry. Not after she called you a... b-word."

"Swearing in front of me is still uncomfortable?"

"You're a celebrity," Quinn said softly. "It's awkward, but give it time, maybe I'll drop a curse in your presence on Sunday."

"Yeah," I breathed out, not sure exactly how long I had been holding that particular breath. I rounded out the conversation, which had drifted into a lull that was surprisingly easy, like we were just content to stand there with one another, looking into each others' eyes. I smiled at her, using my near-patented Rachel Berry red carpet smile, but knew that it was different. To an outsider, someone who didn't know me, it would look exactly the same, but I felt the slightest difference in the way my lips trembled, the way my eyes got a little brighter, and my face felt warmer. Kurt would spot the difference, definitely. And something in Quinn's eyes made me think that perhaps, even though she wasn't privy to my "normal" smile, she caught the difference as well. "Well, I'll be looking forward to that."

Platitudes. When things got dicey, I always linked back to platitudes. Quinn nodded, then moved for the door, but this time, I let her.

I waited another two minutes before exiting the coffee shop, and got into my car, doing a quick sweep for paparazzi and drove toward the set. As I was driving, I didn't even bother to turn on my music, which normally acted as a constant soundtrack to just about anything I did. I was too lost in my thoughts, too busy thinking about the fact that this girl could easily turn into one of those horror stories about how famous people get involved in friendships or even worse, in relationships with fans or "normal" people and end up getting private factoids leaked to the press for a small fee, stalked, or worse.

I swallowed hard, unsure of whether I'd really follow through with that Sunday coffee meeting.

If I bailed, it wasn't like she could hold it against me. I'd likely never see her again if I didn't put my plan into motion. It wasn't like lightning struck twice, at least, not often enough for it to be a valid concern.

I pulled into the Paramount lot, which would become my new, unspoken home away from home and sat in my car, letting the California sunshine wash onto my skin through my windshield for a moment. I felt my body heating up, felt the sweat trickle from my pores, and usually, this was relaxing to me. Usually, this helped me feel alive, but this time, I found myself waiting for something different.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I found myself longing for the rain.


	2. February

**A/N: Wow. What a fantastic response! I'm sorry this update has taken me so long to write. But, I hope the fact that it's long (as all the chapters will be - since there are only 12 total) will make up for the wait. I'm getting more and more excited about writing this story every time I work on it, and I'm going to do my best to limit the space in between postings, but with college starting again, I can't promise. Your continued patience and support is incredible, and I'm so lucky to have so many wonderful readers and GREAT reviews. Thank you. As always, I'd love to know what you think, so please review! Enjoy.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>February<strong>_

Life on a movie set was always busy. There were demanding hours, early morning call times, fifteen hour days, and that wasn't even getting into press jobs that my agents booked for me. Interviews, talk shows, magazine shoots, appearances at this gala or that party or this charity event. It was a glamorous life, and I did love it, but it seemed regimented in its portrayal of spontaneity and laissez-faire attitude. Celebrities always were supposed to seem carefree, unbound to normal schedules. We were supposed to have lives everyone else wanted, and if it seemed like we had normal, planned work days and demanding, rigorous schedules, it would tarnish the image.

My first month of shooting couldn't have gone better. I got along with all the other actors on set, which was practically unheard of. Our crew was great; they composed themselves in a way that straddled the line of rigid professionalism and playful warmth. The director had a great vision, and I felt truly blessed to be part of something that would likely be a major hit. People were already talking about the possibility of Oscar nods, and the film wasn't even close to finished.

However, even with all of that, I found myself always longing for the end of the work day. I found myself keeping my phone with me at almost all times instead of in my trailer, checking my messages between takes. I found myself watching the clock sometimes, drifting off into my thoughts more, and making my own plans outside of work. My agents weren't aware of my dalliances, which was for the best, but my life had taken another huge turn in the last month.

Most people assumed that the unbreakable smile on my face every morning was attributed to my success. I was living the dream, after all, and I was even living above the curve by Hollywood standards. I didn't have any drama in my life. I wasn't in a failing relationship, nor did I have problems with drugs, my co-workers, my director, my fans, my agents. I wasn't a big party animal, constantly in the public eye for late nights drinking on the town. I had been walking taller, smiling brighter, spreading sunshine everywhere I went, even competing with the California sun itself for a completely different reason.

Quinn Fabray.

She was proof that sometimes the best things in life are completely unexpected. I mean, there was no way I could have known that my entire world would be changed by a twenty-one year old fan that I bumped into in a coffee shop while trying to dodge fans and my public on the way to set.

After agreeing to meet her in that coffee shop a second time, on our own terms, where fate wasn't involved, I worked through the pros and cons of following through a thousand times in my head. I agonized over it. I made flowcharts and diagrams, I mapped the possibilities, and I wracked my brain for reasons why I should just leave it alone. I couldn't. There was something so refreshing and honest about her that I couldn't stay away. I was drawn, hypnotized to this girl, captivated by her every movement. It was an odd way to be about a friend, I realized, but after I _did _show up to the coffee shop for our second meeting and sat down with her, I realized that Quinn Fabray was no normal person. She was the epitome of grace and calm. She was smart and wise way beyond her years. She had beautiful insights to the world and saw things, even the smallest things, in a way that I never thought possible. I found myself longing to see through her eyes, and when I realized this would be close to impossible, I settled for keeping her as close to me as possible.

We spent that entire day together. We didn't even leave the coffee shop for two hours, even though we finished our drinks in about 45 minutes. Conversation with Quinn was the easiest thing in the world, and sometimes, it felt like I could talk to her for days on end, without reprieve, and have absolutely no difficulties.

"Take ten, everyone," the director said, and I moved from my mark toward my chair behind the cameras. I moved my bag aside and reached for my phone, unlocking my screen and checking my text messages. Naturally, there were several from her, and I felt my face go from neutral to amused to overjoyed as I read them. They weren't anything important, just thoughts that had jumped into her mind that she wanted to share with me. She told me about how she was riding her bike around town and she saw this troupe of musicians performing old standards with washboards and spoons and other percussive instruments. She had been so taken with them, apparently, that she stood propped up against her bike for twenty minutes listening, and gave them five dollars for their efforts.

She told me that she ended up dropping by our favorite coffee shop for a mid-afternoon caffeine fix and wished that she could just drop by the Paramount lot to bring me something. She explained that she considered it, and wondered if large, burly men would manhandle her and escort her off the premises if she tried. I laughed at that, because she really was one of the least threatening things I'd ever seen in my life.

Her third message was about how she was thinking about taking a road trip somewhere completely random, throwing a dart at a map of California kind of voyage, and wondered if perhaps, I could be convinced to come along. I remember that my heart started racing at the thought about traveling with my friend, about being off the grid and away from everything Hollywood, and unreachable to my agents. I thought about the fact that paparazzi would likely have a field day with me taking a random voyage with some random "nobody" and cared far less than I probably should have. Truthfully, I wanted to shield Quinn from the cameras and the limelight, even though I wanted her to become a bigger and bigger part of my life. She was quickly becoming my best friend, my biggest confidant, and one of the closest people in my "inner circle."

Part of me wondered if it was safe to get this involved as quickly as I had, but I chalked it up to Quinn's power to be innately irresistible. I typed a reply, letting her know how my day was going without giving away key information about filming and the like that would go against contracts I had signed. She preferred not to be spoiled, anyway. One night, we had shared a bottle of wine at a nice little bistro, and I came awfully close to telling her key details. I remembered how she smiled, placed her hand on mine, and said that she could wait until the release date. I knew that it would be impossible, but if this girl was meant to be my best friend, maybe I could get her tickets to the premiere. I couldn't bring her with me, but with the proper amount of string-pulling and name-dropping, surely I could get her underneath the ropes.

Maybe it should have bothered me how little I cared about letting this girl into intimate aspects of my professional life and career, but it didn't. Not at all. Most actors would have likely seen this as a warning sign or a red flag, but I just saw it as a welcome improvement to my brigade of actors and "Hollywood" people. My best friends were a television actor, a choreographer, and a stylist respectively, so I tended to flock to others within the scene. It was refreshing that Quinn lived outside the limelight, had a normal life with normal parents and normal other friends. Even though she never talked about other friends. When we talked, we'd talk about my life, or her life and interests. We'd talk about her family, projects she was planning, things she had done or seen or experienced, and vice versa, but we never talked about friends. It was almost like she kept to herself and saw something in me that struck enough of a spark to open her gates and trust me to see past the castle walls.

I sent my message, and was a bit surprised at the fact that my phone started chiming in my hand moments later. Naturally, she was calling me, although I didn't know why.

"Hello?" I answered curtly, unable to let this call go to voice mail. I knew the break wouldn't be long, and when Quinn and I got to talking in any regard, it was nearly unheard of to end the call before the hour mark passed. Normally, our conversations went two, then three, and sometimes even four hours in one sitting. We could talk and talk, and it never got boring. There would never be lulls or awkward silences, it would just be one continuous share session, and it kept me incredibly on-edge and at peace simultaneously. Just another one of the paradoxes surrounding my new friend, I decided. I wasn't about to question it. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, my father said, so I happily accepted this new gift and treated it with the special honors it deserved.

"Rachel," Quinn breathed, and it always surprised me how she seemed so untethered at hearing my voice, no matter how many times we exchanged phone calls. I had given her my personal telephone number after our second meeting at the coffee shop. I couldn't help myself.

"I'm still on set. We're on a break. How are you?"

"Better now," Quinn said, and I could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke. I always could. "When are you done shooting today?"

"I think it's still up in the air. We've got a few more takes on this scene we're currently working on, and then I think we're set to film another before we wrap, but in between, I should get some down time... why?"

"I completely understand if you'd like to spend said 'down time' in your trailer," Quinn said, but I could hear the pause, the hope, after her sentence dropped off. I focused on her breathing, finding it a perfect accompaniment to the silence, and smiled brightly.

"Give me something better to do," I replied. "My trailer really isn't that interesting."

"There's talk of a small music festival at a local pub. Nothing giant, just a few groups of locals doing 30 minute sets, half price drinks for happy hour, and probably a lot of hipsters," Quinn drawled.

I laughed boisterously; Quinn was _definitely _the hipster type.

"Were you going?"

"I hadn't set any plans in concrete yet. You know me, I like to live spontaneously. However, if a certain Hollywood movie star was available, I was thinking it could be a fun night out."

"I'm so _not _a movie star," I protested.

"You're just a star. A bright, beautiful, shining star. You're going to take the world by storm, Rachel Berry, and I'm blessed to watch you do it," Quinn replied. She got that distant, almost faraway tone that she got sometimes, and even when I pressed on it, she always smiled, laughed it off, and said that it was just another quirk of hers. No matter how much I tried to detect the origin, she'd do whatever it took to throw me off the scent. I didn't mind, though; most of the time she was the perfect picture of life and joy. I decided that she was probably just one of those tortured artist types. She had told me that she enjoyed photography and painting, but wasn't quite ready to share her artwork with me _yet. _

I looked around the set, watching the camera guys start to trickle back in along with a few other crew members. Some of them were carrying sandwiches from the cart outside, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee tantalized my senses. I made a mental note quickly, then returned to Quinn.

"Let me get an ETA on the shoot from Greg, and I'll text you. That music festival sounds awfully tempting," I said, wanting to hear the smile return to her voice. It made her voice sound even lighter and more ethereal than its natural state. Some nights, it lulled me to sleep when our conversations made their way into the wee hours of the morning. Some days, it put me in a state of calm when my life was getting crazy and difficult to manage. I wondered if this girl would become a crutch, a dangerous liability instead of just a friend to keep outside of my world. I thought of our world to be a separate place, where I wasn't _the _Rachel Berry, but simply Rachel. I loved living in that world, and I loved that Quinn could live with me there.

"It's not really a festival. Just a couple bands," Quinn said with a shy chuckle. "I exaggerate."

"It sounds like a great time," I insisted. "I'll text you. Promise."

"Okay," Quinn said quietly. "Go be awesome."

"Always do," I said, then paused. I always found myself not wanting to end our calls. I usually lingered, just a moment longer to hear her breathing on the other line. I never said things like that aloud, because I realized that there could be a creepy element to those types of feelings. But in my head it all seemed so clandestine and poetic, so it could be left alone.

"Goodbye, Rachel."

I heard the smile again, and it satisfied me deep within my being. I grinned wildly. I was unable to control it.

"Bye, Quinn."

One of the producers approached me, clipboard in hand, just as I was hanging up my phone. I stared at it, allowing the screen to lock itself before my eyes drifted upward toward him.

"Miss Berry, we're starting again in a couple minutes," he said, and I smiled, thanking him before silencing my phone and tucking it into my purse. An intern rounded the corner with a cup of coffee, and I was pleased to find that it was for me. Occasionally, it was nice to have overeager interns.

I took my mark, determined to hit every line and every note. Not just because I was poised and in love with perfection, not just because I was becoming incredibly invested in this movie and the possible outcome it would have on my career, but because I had somewhere to be. I had somewhere I _wanted _to be, and for the first time, that place wasn't on a stage or on a set.

My wish came true, and we ended up breaking early for the evening. I barely made it out of the building before my phone was in my hand, and I was firing off a text message to Quinn. Thoughtful as always, she had the foresight to save me a seat, and the bands would be starting in 20 minutes. That would give me just enough time to get to the venue and get settled, since it was only a five minute drive from the lot.

However, as fate would have it, I found myself cornered by a tall figure standing near my car. Noah "Puck" Puckerman was one of my co-workers and the male lead of the production, and had been building quite a reputation both in his film work and in the tabloids, creating the image of a "love 'em and leave 'em" ladies' man. He had convinced himself that because he and I were on-screen partners that I was a natural choice for a courtship, and that he and I would be the next "it" couple. I, however, was completely disinterested in his affections. I sighed, rolled my eyes inwardly, and advanced toward my vehicle.

"Good evening, Noah," I greeted, knowing that a friendly indifference was sometimes one's greatest weapon.

"Rachel," he purred, giving me an obvious, leering once-over as his form of greeting. My eyebrows furrowed, but only for a second before I forced my face into a more neutral expression. We did still have to work together, after all. "You're looking lovely as always."

"The hair and make-up people are geniuses," I replied. "I wish my other projects had been equipped with such a gifted crew."

"No, you just always look hot."

"That's kind of you to say."

"So, I was thinking... since we wrapped early for the night, I'm finding myself with an open schedule and nobody to entertain me for the evening. I know a few great clubs downtown that always let me into VIP. We could drink a little, dance a little maybe. I'll show you a good time," he said, pushing off my car slightly and moving toward me, head slightly downward in what he must have thought was a sexy advance, but came off more as predatory and awkward all at once. I found myself hoping he'd set off my car alarm.

"Actually, I have plans," I said quickly. "But thank you for the offer. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Come on, Rachel," Noah said, moving forward and daring to put his hand on my hip. He smelled like expensive cologne and a hint of cigar smoke. His hands were too big. I didn't like it. I didn't like it when I was supposed to like it, even; when I was in character. "Come out with me. You're hot, I'm hot; Hollywood loves a hot couple. We'd be smoking."

I breathed in and fought the urge to cough: smoking indeed.

"I already have plans," I said, a little more firmly the second time. "But, I'm sure there are plenty of other ladies in your little black book that you could call to _entertain _you for the evening."

I pushed back against his hands, then darted around his looming figure toward my car.

"Goodnight, Noah."

He crossed his arms and his face dissolved to a boyish little pout that reminded me of a child that had just had his toys taken away followed by him being put in the corner. I got into the passenger seat, started my car, and fought the urge to laugh. I gave him a placating wave as I drove past and on the lot.

I really couldn't _wait _to get to Quinn.

The venue was quiet, intimate, and nothing like the larger locations I was used to. There wasn't a VIP section, there weren't extravagant booths and people tucked into every corner. Everyone mingled with everyone. Everyone was equal to everyone else. The lights were dim enough that I felt like I would be a little more incognito, just in case, but something about the vibe of the place made me feel safe and not like someone would approach my table to gush over me and take away from my evening out. I felt like there was a mutual, natural respect. It was very zen, very low-key, very _Quinn_.

The first band was setting up onstage, and it only took me a few minutes of looking to find Quinn. She had chosen a small, secluded booth (or as secluded as the open space got) near the front right quadrant of the place, perfectly spaced between the bar and the stage. She didn't see me right away, and I was okay with that, because it gave me an opportunity to take her in as I approached the table. Her blonde hair seemed more radiant under the dim lights and candlelit tabletop. Her eyes studied the performers as they tuned their instruments, taking in their every move like I would expect of an artist. Her hands absently stirred the small cocktail straw in her drink. Her breathing was slow, calm. She was still, like a piece of artwork all on her own.

I stood before the table and pursed my lips. My shadow descended over her, likely interrupting her lighting and gaining her attention. I watched her expressions change, saw the fire from the candle dance in those hazel eyes as they grew wider with recognition, then happiness, then contentment that seemed to always take Quinn in quiet moments.

"Rachel," she breathed out, the same way as she always did when greeting me. "You're here."

"Well, I _did _tell you I was coming," I teased. "Sorry it took a little while longer; I got momentarily detained. In the really unwanted kind of way."

"Oh," she said, her tone immediately sympathetic to my unknown plight. "Your co-star again?"

"Yes," I exhaled, exasperated but happy at the same time to be able to release my emotions like this. She was a catalyst. She was an excellent listener. She made me feel secure, like I could say things that plagued my thoughts, got on my nerves, irritated me and rubbed me the wrong way. To most, it would be seamless bitching, but to her, it was interesting. It was cathartic, she said, to be able to carry some of my burdens. "The _nerve _of that man!"

She gestured for me to sit next to her and quit stirring her drink. She focused all of her attention on me, like I was the only other thing existing in the entire universe. Quinn had such incredible focus, whether it was on something beautiful in a store window, a song she was listening to, or me. I moved in next to her, sliding close so we could talk more quietly to one another and not risk others eavesdropping. I never knew who was lurking, and didn't trust that someone hadn't already gotten sight of me when I came in.

"I'm sorry he's so persistent, but I can't really blame him," Quinn said quietly. "I mean, there is something to be said for decorum, but I can understand why he'd want to be close to you."

I arched an eyebrow and regarded this woman. My _friend._ She was looking at me, head slightly tilted to the side and a quirked smile curving up the left side of her mouth, but I couldn't read the fine print of the expression. It was another of Quinn's mysteries, and while I loved it, sometimes it was enough to drive a person mad.

"He's a womanizing asshole, Quinn," I said plainly. "I don't want him any nearer to me than he has to be for our job. For our characters. And that's close enough for my comfort level, trust me."

"Have you shot the love scene yet?"

I blanched, looking at Quinn again to find that her hands had stilled completely, and while before, there was a trace of expression on her face, now she was completely neutral. Her eyes flashed something, a flicker of emotion in a sea of enigma for a split-second before all was washed away. However, her intense focus remained, awaiting my response. I wasn't supposed to tell her plot elements, or spoil anything in the script because it was against my contract, but as a friend, I had confided in her that I was to shoot a love scene for the movie. Tasteful, only a glimpse of nudity on my part, even less on his, but a love scene nonetheless. The idea made me completely uncomfortable, not because I was embarrassed of my body or anything; I had grown up on the stage, I had done Broadway. My body was just another element in which to display my talents. Some say that an actor's kiss, an actor's body is meaningful because when we choose who we give it to, _then _it means something. Otherwise, it's just a job. Just a character. Just another part to play.

"No," I replied with a heavy exhale. "I'm not sure when I'm going to have to cross that bridge. You'll know about it as soon as I do, I'm sure."

"It means a lot to me that you confide in me, you know," Quinn said softly.

"You're my friend, Quinn."

She laughed gently, resumed stirring her drink, then took a sip to steady herself, perhaps.

"That still blows my mind."

"Why would it? You're amazing," I confessed. It was one of the most honest things I had ever told anyone. She really was amazing, beyond words.

"It's more than I ever would have expected, more than I could have conjured up in an entire head full of dreams and imaginations, which is kind of the world I live in," Quinn said, speaking softly. "It kind of makes me wonder about fate, and what plans are really written for us. I thought I knew mine, but then..."

I couldn't help myself. Something about how demure she was, how honest she was, how quietly she was speaking and the way the light was hitting her face, adding more of an ethereal glow to that flawless ivory skin... I placed my hand on hers. It was just a touch, just a gentle resting of my hand to hers. But it lingered, and that was what caused the danger. Quinn shifted her hand, but for a moment, I thought she was going to withdraw. She didn't. She turned her hand over, still keeping it underneath mind, and moved her fingers, spreading them out so mine fell neatly in between.

And just like that, we were holding hands. We were holding hands in a public place where anyone could notice me, then notice her, and get a completely wrong idea. But, then... if I thought a little harder, put two and two together with a little more emphasis, a little more clarity, it brought cause to wonder: would it _really _be the wrong idea?

I leaned in closer, still living under the guise that the place was getting louder in preparation for the first band's performance, and whispered in her ear. I could smell her skin, could smell the salt from the air, the warmth from the sunshine, the clean scent of her detergent, and a woodsy, spiced scent that was Quinn's very essence.

"If we knew our plans, our future, then what would be the point of anything? I think the greatest thing about life is the element of surprise. Of _not_ knowing."

"Well, you can't know everything," Quinn said, her words maintaining a more rigid, almost protective feature even as I kept my close proximity and invasion of her personal space. Yet, I noticed she wasn't brushing me off, distancing herself, or doing anything that would make me feel uncomfortable enough to withdraw on my own, tail between my legs, and resist thoughts of ever pulling a stunt like this a second time.

"There are some things I'd like to know everything about," I confessed.

Quinn leaned in, and when I felt her breath on my lips, I nearly lost my mind. I felt my body tremble from the inside and working its way out like I was the epicenter of an earthquake. I felt my shoulders tense, then release. My fingers flexed of their own accord. My heart pounded so hard that it could have easily been the bass for an 80's rock band. I saw the colors of Quinn's eyes swirling, even in candlelight, and bit my bottom lip.

"Hmm. Like what?" Quinn asked. Her smile that followed was daring, challenging. Challenging me.

Rachel Berry never backed down from challenges, even when she wasn't sure it was proper to dive in head first. Challenges kept things going, gave you focus, increased your drive. They weren't something to run from, but another tool to make you stronger. I smiled back defiantly, but kept the honesty plain as it was written across my face. I was accepting her challenge, but I was also bearing my soul.

"Like you."

Her breath rattled as it left her lungs, and she took another long swig of her drink, finishing it, then slid it across the table, out of reach.

"I'm going to get another one of those. It's probably not safe for you to trudge up to the bar. Can I get you anything?"

I narrowed my eyes. What a subject change. But, I wasn't going to press. I'd learned that pressing got me nowhere with Quinn. She spoke when ready. She acted when she was comfortable. The fact that she wasn't acting, that she was going for a refill already, meant that she wasn't ready, and as her friend, I knew I had to respect that. Although, the fire burned hot in my belly, and I could see the line between friend and _more _blurring. I'd have to dwell on it, I knew, and figure out if I truly was content being with Quinn in this fashion, or if I was going to be greedy and make an attempt to have more. If I could handle the repercussions.

Maybe it was her kindness, maybe I was over thinking the situation. I had turned gentle, enigmatic, mysterious, attentive, _wonderful _Quinn... friend-Quinn into something much greater. Lover-Quinn. Partner-Quinn. And maybe, just maybe, that was more due to my desire not to be alone coupled with the way she could make me feel so special in ways that autographs and screaming fans could not. Maybe it was more of that than actual want. I played passion well from behind a camera lens. But Rachel Berry seldom _wanted _more than fame, more than recognition.

I didn't _want _things like lovers and romance in my personal life. I hadn't wanted that for a long, long time. Teenage Rachel, maybe even post-graduation Rachel wanted that, but when I became Broadway Rachel, and especially when I became Hollywood Rachel, I labeled such wants as distractions. I could summon those emotions for my work, but allowing them to leak into my personal life and my busy, hectic schedule was something that had to be avoided. I was going places. I couldn't afford to be taken off track.

Even if there was a chance that I wanted to be derailed, thrown aside, destroyed and pieced back together.

"Rachel?" Quinn asked again. "Thirsty?"

"It's not a good idea to drink alcohol when you're thirsty, but what the hell. Cosmopolitan?"

"I'll be right back," Quinn promised, sliding out of the booth and heading for the bar. I watched her walk away, watched her make her way through the crowd in that polite, tentative Quinn way where she was conscious of everything and everyone, not wanting to step on toes or get in the way. She reached the bar, and her smile flashed at the bartender, who immediately looked helpless. She had that ability, to render you completely mindless with a single smile. He started mixing our drinks, and before I knew it, possibly hours after my eyes glazed over from watching her do the smallest things like breathe, or laugh, or tap her fingers against the bar, she was back, sliding into the booth and placing my drink in front of me.

I took a sip, needing the courage. I looked at Quinn, who was back to stirring her straw in her drink. The band started with the lead singer addressing the crowd, who hushed almost instantly at the sound of a clear male voice through the venue's sound system. Quinn bit her bottom lip. I took another drink.

I _wanted._ I wanted badly. I had to know. I had to be sure, otherwise I'd never be able to go back to normal. I'd always have to wonder if Quinn was meant to be friend-Quinn or more than my friend, Quinn. I felt the questions, the insecurity, the desire flooding my veins, and cleared my throat.

"Clearing your throat is bad for you," Quinn teased, not even looking at me. My heart seized: she was aware of me, always. Always. This had to be right, then. Right?

"Quinn," I said, completely clear. I could detect the waver in my voice, but I hoped... prayed, even, that she wouldn't catch it.

She looked at me, eyebrow instantly raised to give voice to the silent, questioning response. She licked her bottom lip, and I moaned quietly. Her pupils instantly dilated, and I leaned in for the kill. I placed my hand on her neck, brushing my thumb along her perfect jawline, and leaned in. I felt her breath on my lips again, and closed my eyes.

Quinn placed her index finger against my lips, stopping me cold, and I opened my eyes.

"Rachel," Quinn breathed. It was the same way she _always _said my name, no matter the circumstance. We had been playing for a month. One month, and I was going _insane. _"Please know that my stopping you is not because I don't want you to kiss me."

"Then let me kiss you," I argued petulantly.

"You're not sure," Quinn said. I felt my heart sink. As always, she was right. I was proving a point, testing a theory, wanting to put sense in places that were entirely senseless and figure out where the hell my head was at, because I didn't know anymore. "I know that you _want _to, I can see that clearly enough. But you're not sure _why_ you want to. And I want you to be sure. I don't want to have regrets, and if I let you kiss me now..."

"It'll be for the wrong reasons," I finished. Quinn nodded, then rested her palm against my face. We stared at each other, unaware and lost, not even realizing that the band had already started their set. They could have been nearly finished for all I knew, and I felt that Quinn was in the same state. She took her hand away, then smiled at me with all the brilliance and light of a tropical wonderland, with all the warmth of the sun, and kissed my cheek.

"When it happens, it'll be the perfect moment, because we'll _both _be sure."

"Are you?"

Quinn pulled back and sipped her drink, looking up at me innocently through long lashes.

"Am I what?"

"Sure."

"About us?" Quinn asked. "About... about kissing you? About wanting you?"

"Yes," I breathed, my eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Quinn smirked, then nibbled on her straw.

"Almost."


	3. March

**A/N: WOW. I mean, seriously - EPIC WOW. Over 50 reviews for two chapters? Really, you guys? Really? I'm honored. Seriously, totally floored and honored and humbled and just... there are not enough words to explain or even begin to express how thankful I am. And I know a LOT of words. Really, it's a thing. My friends jokingly refer to me as the Human Thesaurus sometimes, and it's awkward, but it's one of those things you just have to grow into. But now I'm rambling, so, as thanks, here's a shiny new chapter! It's a little cute, a little lovely, and perhaps a little sexy. But only a little! Quinn isn't the only tease up in here. Enjoy, and as always, your reviews make me one happy fic writer, so keep them a comin'!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>March<strong>_

I always loved the beginnings of Spring. Even in California, which seemed like the land of endless summer, there was something about the psychological effects of Spring. It brought everything back to life, made everything new again, even if it wasn't as drastic a change seasonally as I was used to from living in Ohio and New York. California was more mild seasonally, but whenever people started talking about the changes of Spring, and I saw the calendar change, I felt a new hope, and a new sense of awakening flood my system. It lifted my spirits and brightened my moods. I could feel the joy of Spring, specifically on one day when Quinn and I went to San Francisco for a little weekend getaway. We were walking along the bay, letting the water hit our feet and soaking up the sun, thankful to be on a different span of beach than we were used to in the southern part of the state. Quinn was running a few paces ahead of me, camera in hand, taking pictures of random people, birds, waves, water, sand, and even shooting a few shots over her shoulder, determined on getting candid shots of me to add to her portfolio.

Her personal collection only, she promised, but I wouldn't have cared either way. My agent might have cared. My fans might have raised an eyebrow or two, but I certainly didn't care. The smile on Quinn's face when she was in photographer mode was unlike anything I had seen, and when she got that carefree look of utter joy, I knew there was nothing in the world I could have denied her. Not a photograph, not a million dollars, not the keys to my kingdom; there wasn't a single "no" I could have given her.

"Rachel!" Quinn called, laughter permeating every inch of her voice as she spoke. She was running backwards, somehow managing to keep her balance, and had the camera trained on me. I smiled and laughed along with her. "Rachel, you can't keep looking at the camera! This isn't the red carpet!"

I laughed again, then dropped my eyes down toward the sand. I wasn't sure where she wanted me to look, then, if not at her. The ocean was beautiful, the waves were coming in strong, the sun was shining: overall, it was a gorgeous day. Surely there would have been something that caught my eye, right? Well, truth be told, there was, but it would go against Quinn's wishes to not look at the camera to keep my eye on its current focal point. Quinn was attached to that camera, and my eyes were, as usual, locked on Quinn. She was my favorite mystery, and was slowly becoming my favorite person. We had taken steps, albeit small ones since that night at the bar when we almost kissed. We still hadn't kissed. I hadn't been brave enough to try again, and Quinn was likely waiting for me. I wasn't sure why she was waiting. If she wanted to kiss me, I was pretty sure she knew that I'd comply. The fact that she hadn't made a move, or insinuated that she wanted me to make another one caused insecurities to settle deep in my gut, made me lost to wonder if maybe, this was Quinn's way of telling me not to cross that bridge of friendship. Because our friendship really was incredible, and like nothing else I had ever known. Quinn was closer to me than any lover, any friend, and all of this had happened in less than three months.

When I was younger, I was always obsessed with the idea of love; specifically, I was obsessed with the idea of true love. I would watch romantic comedies and old romantic black and white films and daydream about when my tall, dark, and handsome leading man would come steal my heart, never asking questions, but never prepared to give it back, either. I started asking questions, grilling my fathers about how someone was supposed to know when it was the "real" thing. They'd laugh, because it was probably strange to see an eight year old asking such serious questions. I remember Leroy (my "Dad") rumpled my hair, despite my complaints and told me: "Rachel, when it's right, it's right. You just know, and you can't help yourself. You can't hold back, you can't fight, you can't do anything but just enjoy the ride."

I had a number of failed relationships throughout my life. Some lasted years, some lasted a mere month or two, but none had given me that feeling of helpless joy that my dad described. I was happy in my past relationships, sure, but deep down, if I really thought about it, there was always something missing that I couldn't pinpoint and put my finger on. Not to mention, none of the guys I dated met my fathers' approval for one reason or the other, which should have been warning signs to begin with. So, I knew my share of heartbreak. However, when the heartbreak came after the ending of a relationship, I always thought that it should have been worse. Who wants heartbreak to hurt more, really? But I did. I remembered the movies where the girl lost her love, or it ended too soon, or one of the lovers would mope and pine for the other in such a manner that I couldn't help but think maybe their heart had been torn from their chest. It had never felt that bad for me in the past. It was a sting, a mild discomfort: a paper cut on the heartbreak scale, every time. I wanted a love that would leave me breathless and hold all the possibility to devastate me. That's how I'd know it was real. I'd enjoy the ride without knowing that I was falling until I had fallen.

"Well, where do you want me to look, Quinn? I can't very well be candid when you're barking orders at me and I know you're trying to take pictures!" I called back, still laughing with my words. I was trying to pretend I was cross with her. It didn't work. It _never _worked.

"The water's beautiful, Rachel. Look out at the ocean. Skip rocks or something, I don't care. Just stop looking at _me_," Quinn said, giving her own stern impression and also failing miserably. I chuckled, then picked up a smooth looking stone, shifting it between my fingers and brushing off some of the sand.

"I don't know how to skip rocks, though," I whined.

"You're from Ohio," Quinn teased. "They don't skip rocks in Ohio? I would think that seems like a very Midwestern activity."

"Shut up," I retorted, sticking out my bottom lip for a mild pout. "I wasn't very outdoorsy."

"Surprise, surprise," Quinn teased again. "Go pretend. You're an actress. Act."

Quinn raised the camera, and I looked away before her finger could hit the capture button. I crouched down, finding another stone, then a third, and balanced all three stones in my hand. I walked toward the water, tempted to look over my shoulder at Quinn: was she still taking pictures, or was she just watching? How fair would that be if she could stare at me unobstructed, but I was forbidden? I moved a single stone to my dominant hand and moved my wrist down, and tossed it like one would throw a Frisbee. The stone sailed sideways, then landed in the water with a thump, quickly being swept away with the strong undercurrent.

"Quinn, this isn't working," I protested.

"Keep throwing," Quinn coached.

"Fine."

I picked up the second stone and tried a technique that had my wrist more at an angle. The stone went sideways again and stayed a little flatter against the water but again was demolished by the undertow. I looked back at Quinn, and she lowered the camera. Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief as she looked at me, and a small smile played on her perfect lips.

"What?" Quinn asked, taking a few steps back. I advanced toward her, knowing what that look meant, and allowing it to cause my train of thought to reach a sensible conclusion. "Rachel, why are you looking at me that way? I'm just trying to photograph you."

She looked innocent enough, but I knew better. I had been played.

"You can't skip stones in the ocean, Quinn."

Quinn's smile widened.

"Well, you _can, _but it's not easy," Quinn replied. "It's easier with calm water, like lakes or ponds. But it's certainly not impossible. I wouldn't give you an impossible task for my own enjoyment."

Her look stayed devious, and I continued advancing. I dropped my third stone, and ran toward her, full sprint. She reacted too late, and barely got three steps ahead of me before I caught up, grabbing her around the waist and spinning us from the momentum. We were both laughing like crazed fools, and my heart almost hurt from how much joy I contained in that very moment.

"Drop your camera, Miss," I whispered against her neck, just beneath her ear. I thought I felt her shiver, maybe my mind was playing tricks on me, but I _felt _it.

"Someone will steal it," Quinn whined softly. "And there's sand."

"It's a beach. Naturally, there would be sand, and nobody's going to steal your camera."

"Someone _might _steal it," Quinn said. "And the shots were probably pretty good."

"So you're not worried about the actual camera so much as the film?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, no. Because if someone stole my camera because you were distracting me and taking my attention away from my _art project_, then you would just have to buy me a new one," Quinn said, her tone even and matter-of-fact.

"This is an art project?" I asked. "For what? You never mentioned any art project."

"Well, it was going to be surprise," Quinn retorted. "But you just have to keep asking questions and pushing me."

"I'll drop it," I said instantly, holding my hands up and adopting an innocent expression. "I like surprises. So please, don't allow me to badger you any further. We'll forget this ever happened."

"Hmm, okay," Quinn said, and I barely noticed she was backing away from my embrace before she was almost completely finished with her task of taking off her cardigan and placing it on top of the sand to cushion her precious camera. Once the camera was in place, she moved back toward me and leaned forward, moving her lips right against the nape of my neck. Unmistakably, I _did _shiver.

"Sucker," she whispered before she sprinted toward the ocean, running and kicking up sand everywhere as she left me in her dust.

"Quinn, wait!" I called, then chased her into the waves with abandon. "We're not wearing swimsuits! And it's probably freezing!"

"I don't care, it's fun!" Quinn called back. She ran into the water until it covered her knees. Her pants that she had rolled up previously were already starting to get wet at the cuffs, but she walked just a little deeper. "And it's only a little cold. You'll be fine, come join me!"

"But I don't have a swimsuit!"

"Neither do I!" Quinn said. "Clothes will dry. That's what all this sunshine is for! Now come on, Rachel Berry, or are you _chicken_?"

I froze in my tracks. How dare she call me out like that? Like I didn't have the courage to jump into a perfectly fine ocean just because it was cold enough to give me frostbite.

So I ran. I sprinted, moving as fast as my legs (which were thankfully long for my short stature) would take me, splashing in the water moments later. I made sure to fling a few well-placed splashes directly at Quinn, who held up her arms as if it would ward off my onslaught. She was laughing, then started splashing me back, and I tried to take cover, but couldn't, and we were both soaked within minutes.

I barely felt the cold until we were standing still and wet clumps of my hair stuck to my forehead. I knew I probably looked a mess, but I was hoping it was at least a hot mess. Quinn looked at me, and she tilted her head to the side in that very Quinn way and pursed her lips. I watched her eyes narrow, just a little bit, and her brow furrowed a second later.

"You're so going to pay for this later, Fabray," I said, attempting to sound indignant. Menacing, perhaps. She didn't fall for it, either way. She smirked at me and sent another hearty splash between the distance of our bodies and connected with incredible accuracy.

"Oh, really?" Quinn teased, arching a perfect eyebrow defiantly. That look _always _got my attention. _All _of my attention. "I'm going to pay for showing you some harmless, carefree fun that you probably haven't experienced in, I don't know, years?"

"What makes you think I don't have fun? I have fun. I have _lots _of fun."

Quinn took a few steps closer, and suddenly, the water didn't feel so cold.

"You work. You go to events, galas, charity auctions, photo shoots. You pal around with your cast-mates and co-stars, but let's face it, most of them annoy you. Every now and then you'll get a relaxing spa day or you'll go see a movie that you've actually _wanted _to see with a friend, but you're always looking over your shoulder, waiting for paparazzi to strike. But today, I haven't seen you do that. Do you realize that? Not even once."

She was right. She was _always _right. I hadn't thought about the possibility of someone noticing me, I hadn't been wearing a disguise of any kind. I had been completely out in the open, splashing around on a very public beach in a very open area with a very wonderful, lively _girl_. My publicist would kill me.

"You make my life sound so dull, Quinn. When really it's..."

"Structured," she said, cutting me off. "Regimented. You're so careful, controlled, and it's beautiful and admirable, but when I met you in that coffee shop, you looked at me like you wanted me to release you from all of it. You wanted me to help you, I don't know, find the fun a little? We needed each other."

The conversation flipped so quickly, that I hadn't even seen it coming. It caught me by surprise, in a way that only Quinn could pull off. The girl could go from zero to a thousand in the blink of an eye, and it stunned me and captivated me every single time.

But I didn't want to be having _this _conversation. I didn't want Quinn to know exactly how much I felt that I needed her, because it would make me look pathetic, and Rachel Berry _wasn't _pathetic. I hadn't been pathetic since Lima, since high school, since everyone saw me as an outsider who had bigger dreams than she knew how to cash. But I cashed them. I cashed _all _of them, and they were probably staring at my shadow in stunned silence. That thought kept me strong, kept me powerful, kept me motivated, and I promised myself when I started to launch my career that I would never allow that girl to show her face again. Rachel Berry was a powerhouse these days, not a meek, starry-eyed teen with an overly romanticized view of the world and a song in her pocket.

Quinn smiled at me, gently, and I knew it wasn't meant to be anything but one of her many accurate assessments that brought me comfort in how _well _she knew me. She wouldn't see me as pathetic. She probably would have loved the old Rachel Berry. Perhaps even more than Hollywood Rachel. That was, if she _did _love Hollywood Rachel. It was another of my assumptions that I tried to stay away from, lest I become that old, starry-eyed teenager once more.

"What happened to carefree fun, huh?" I teased, hoping this would be enough to throw her off the scent. But, with Quinn, it rarely was. Those tricks hardly ever worked; the girl was like a dog with a damn bone, and once she got a whiff of something remotely interesting, she teased and coaxed and smiled and cajoled until even the most iron-willed people would crumble and offer her anything she wanted. It wasn't forceful, her way of doing things. It was remarkably gentle, because of her innate ability to earn the trust of anything and anyone that crossed her path.

"Who says this _isn't_ carefree?" Quinn asked softly. "I'm having a wonderful time with you, Rachel."

She purred my name. She _purred_ it, and I was instantly lost. No human should be so powerful, ever.

Maybe it was the sunlight hitting her eyes and causing all the green to reflect across the surface. Another possibility that it was the moment, how close she was standing, how fresh the air was, and how that smile always got underneath my skin, burrowing deep and taking prisoners. I found myself with the courage to reach for her again, just like I had once before, when I was rebuffed. Quinn stayed still, and I waded through the water that separated us until I was looking up at her, since she had a slight height advantage.

I cupped her cheek with my hand, and leaned in until only a whisper lingered between us. I waited for her to stop me. I waited for one of those hands to return to my face and delay my path, delaying what I felt was inevitable yet again. She didn't. She just looked at me, an unmistakable challenge laced hand-in-hand with unbridled affection surging through those perfect eyes. I couldn't help myself. She made me weak. She made me weak in ways I never wanted to be weak, but made it so I didn't fear the consequences. I didn't think long enough to fear them. I only considered negative courses of action long enough to know with absolute certainly that she would catch me.

This time, it was _my _turn to purr, to set _her _senses on fire for a change.

"Oh, I'll show you carefree, Quinn."

I hooked my index finger under her chin and guided her lips to mine, stroking those chiseled, high cheekbones with my thumb an instant after our lips met. This wasn't an overly passionate kiss we shared. It was, in my opinion, the way all good first kisses _should _be. It was slow, tentative, and exploratory in its sweetness and understated emotion. Quinn's lips reacted to mine like I had brought them back to life after a long slumber, and we traced one another. Tongues weren't needed, just the feel of her lips sliding along mine, leading then following and leading again was enough, more than enough. Her hand moved to my hip and pulled me in a little closer, but in a way that was different than any man had ever kissed me. It wasn't commanding, and it wasn't out of a need to possess. She just wanted me close to her. She wanted to feel my body next to hers. She did this even when we weren't kissing. I wondered, for a moment, if she would catch on that I noticed how her hand always seemed to brush against mine when we walked. If I knew how her hand would rest lightly on my lower back when we were standing in line, or she was moving to walk around me. I caught every nuance, every linger that lasted a moment too long. I understood Quinn's need to be close to me, because I had come to crave that closeness, and furthermore, had become dependent on it. I missed her touches when they didn't linger. I felt a pang of disappointment when she wasn't staring at me, even innocently. I found myself waiting for that simple, almost accidental brush of her hand along the back of mine.

Quinn sighed as we parted, and her eyes remained closed for another moment. She spoke without opening them.

"That was the moment I was waiting for," she said simply.

I laughed and allowed my arms to encircle her slender waist. I kissed her chin, then mewled in the back of my throat, wordlessly demanding her attention, and she maneuvered forward, even with her eyes closed, and managed to place a perfectly placed kiss to the bridge of my nose. She nuzzled me there, then pulled me in so I was nestled against her, lips happily resting in the hollow of her throat.

"The water's starting to feel cold," I commented after we stood there for a few more minutes in complete silence. It was a fleeting thought, but I always had the propensity to speak my mind without a filter.

"It's the perfect moment, Rachel. There's no such thing as cold water here," Quinn replied, and I could feel her voice rumble against my lips. I sighed, content, and realized that she was right again. It was funny how she could change the temperature of the water like that. Or at least, make my mind believe that it had changed, since that was exactly what it felt like. Quinn was magical.

I fidgeted in her arms when the cold returned, and she kissed me again, sliding her tongue against my bottom lip this time, but teasing me with entrance by staying away from taking that step. I wanted her to deepen the kiss, and I tried, but she would linger a moment, then retreat a split second later. Nobody had ever kissed me the way Quinn did. By our second kiss, she had already perfected a technique of giving me exactly what I wanted, then teasing what I wanted even more and keeping me constantly on edge, wanton and needy, until I found myself digging my fingertips into her hips just a little. I whimpered when she withdrew, offering me the tiniest scrape of her teeth against my lip as a consolation prize, and looked up at her through hooded eyes.

"Let's get back to dry land, shall we?"

"But you're so happy with being in the perfect moment and now so am I," I replied.

Quinn laughed and hugged me. I breathed her in, loving the smell of salt and sunshine more in that moment than I ever had previously.

"Our stuff is just waiting to be stolen. I was keeping an eye on it before, but now I find myself pleasantly distracted by how damn beautiful you are," Quinn said, and I grinned widely.

I gasped, adding to the playful feeling that was building in my chest.

"You swore!"

"I did," Quinn said. "Don't get used to it."

When she untangled herself from me, I felt the loss, but I still followed her all the way to shore. For me, it was quite the view. She leaned down to pick up the camera, and her jeans were soaked all the way to her knees, starting to wick up to her mid-thighs. Her hair was messy and disheveled, slightly frizzy from the moisture in the air and developing a natural wave that framed her face. I bent over next to her and rolled my pants up a little higher, even though they were starting to constrict my legs.

"I think I brought a skirt with me. It's in a bag in my car. I might have an extra pair of pants, too, if you want," I said, trying to be thoughtful. Quinn snapped a few more pictures, and I blushed at the thought that she was capturing me in vulnerable positions. But really, when _wasn't _I vulnerable with her?

"Your pants would be shorts on me," Quinn said with a playful, harmless chuckle. "But thank you for offering. These will dry."

"I'm not _that _short!" I argued.

"You're delightfully short," Quinn said decisively. "Now let's get back to the car so you can change into that skirt. I like you in skirts."

I raised an eyebrow; I loved how kissing her had seemingly opened up an entire new set of boundaries. Now she was _flirting _and I loved it. I had never seen her be overly affectionate or overly flirtatious. She was always shrouded behind this iron will and steeled control. I almost wondered what was so torturous that she held back so much, but now, the floodgates were open, and if I had been crazy about her before, I knew now that I was absolutely, completely doomed.

"I'll wear skirts every single day," I suggested.

"You'll kill me if you do."

"Surely I wouldn't have that profound effect on you," I retorted, smirking when she caught up to my pace, settling her naturally lazy stride to my quick, brisk "city walk." Her camera was carefully perched around her neck by the thick, padded strap, and a second later, her hand was reaching out for mine. It wasn't the same careful brush I was used to. No, this was deliberate; her fingers were seeking mine out, wanting and encouraging me to tangle them together, like intricately woven strands that belonged to the same tapestry.

I was well aware that I couldn't deny her anything, and I did not want to deny her this. I didn't want to deny myself, either. Not at all. The warmth of her hand enveloped mine and I looked down for a moment, wanting to see the physical proof that we looked amazing together. Which we did, naturally. We were suited wonderfully, a perfect contrast. A casting director couldn't have fit a better pair together. This much, I knew from experience.

We got to my car, and I rummaged through my bag for a few, brief seconds before I found the skirt that I was hoping was hidden among my numerous cosmetic products, sunscreen, a hairbrush, cell phone charger, random CDs, and my essentials that were scattered about in my large Coach bag. It was a little wrinkled, but it was free-flowing cotton, so I knew that with enough time, the breeze would work its magic. Besides, a little wrinkle here and there would only do to cement me as a Bohemian beauty on the arm of my hipster... girlfriend?

I looked at Quinn, then looked back down at our intertwined hands. It was too soon for labels, I decided. This, whatever it was, was better than anything I'd known my entire life and it was still so new. I didn't want to ruin it by premature labeling. That was the _old _Rachel's method of operation.

"Found it!" I said, raising the skirt high above my head like a treasured trophy. Quinn smirked, then turned around, like the faithful, respectable thing she was. "Quinn, wha-?"

"You're changing. I'm being courteous," she replied.

"I'm changing in a car near a public beach. There are women in bikinis that are more scantily clad than I'm about to be, and also, you're a girl, too," I argued. Why did I care so much, anyway?

"Right, but it's different," Quinn replied. I sighed, knowing that we were back in the land of enigma and clouded answers. If it wasn't so endearing, I might have gotten annoyed. But again, magic Quinn kept me from getting to that point of complete frustration.

I opened one of the back doors and climbed into the backseat, shifting slightly on the seat to remove my soaked jeans and saw that Quinn was still averting her eyes.

"How is it different, exactly?"

"You're a girl that makes me feel things. Lots of things, and out of respect, I'd rather save looking at you whilst _scantily clad _for a more appropriate context."

"Ooh, big words, you're turning me on," I teased as the jeans finally released my confined legs, leaving me half nude other than my underwear on the cloth backseat of my vehicle. In that moment, I should have _really _been worried about paparazzi, but Quinn was doubling as an effective body block, so I could at least be grateful for something. I slid the skirt up and over, settling it low and comfortably on my hips and then tapped Quinn on the shoulder.

"Sometimes, I wonder why we're friends. What with you teasing the way you did just then," Quinn said, her trademark smirk fully in place so I'd know without an ounce of doubt that she was kidding.

It was that moment, I think, that I decided that if Quinn was going to play, _I _was going to play. And I always, always played to win.

I traced my finger along Quinn's collarbone when I stood up to my full height, which would always be shorter than her (not that I minded – quite the opposite, actually), and looked up at her through my long lashes, fluttering them a bit for good measure.

"There's nothing wrong with teasing, Quinn. It's an excellent motivator. Teasing can... _tantalize _and keep somebody interested for a very, very long time before anything actually reaches a boiling point. Teasing, when done correctly is like extended foreplay, and I don't know about _you, _but I think foreplay is absolutely delicious. When done correctly, of course."

I kept my voice low on purpose, making her have to lean closer to listen to me, just as she had done so many times before. She thought she had perfected that technique, probably. She likely thought it was hers and hers alone, but I was an actress, and I had learned that sometimes, method acting was one of the most useful things in our toolbox of skills. It was certainly serving me well at that moment.

My finger continued down, slipping just slightly beneath her collar and traveling down past the first two buttons of her shirt that she had left undone to the third, which was left buttoned and continued in that pattern all the way down to the hem, button by glorious button, for decency's sake. I felt her shiver, and I knew it wasn't a mistake or a fluke that time.

"Rachel, what are you doing?"

"I think it should be obvious that I'm teasing you, Quinn," I retorted coyly. "After all, you made me wait for our perfect moment, and I am glad for that. But now, I'm going to make sure you have all sorts of thoughts of, what was the phrase you used? Oh, 'appropriate context' situations where you might have the chance to see me in all sorts of debauched states. Which result from, I hope, those seemingly capable hands you've got."

Quinn gulped, and I removed my hands. I tossed my hair over my shoulder and offered her a playful little wink before grabbing my purse and closing my car door. I noted that she was still frozen in place, a stunned look fixed on her flawless features as I hit the automatic lock on my keyring and started down the beach.

"Where are you going?"

Her voice was strangled and a little weak, but I could still hear it even with the slight distance I had put between us.

"I'm suddenly feeling very warm. I think I saw a food truck down the way, and I'm sure they'll have something to cool me off. Are you coming?"

Quinn nodded, and when she started walking toward me, I started running away.

I made her chase me all the way to the food truck, and was surprised that she managed to keep up pretty well, despite the camera weighing her down and making running awkward.

When we got to the food truck, Quinn enveloped me in her arms from behind. I felt the sun's rays kiss my skin as she kissed my shoulder, and in that moment, I felt everything I loved about spring wash over me.

Rebirth was always such a lovely concept. In that moment, Rachel Berry was reborn.


	4. April

_****_**A/N: Hello, dear readers! I'm going to keep this brief so you guys can get to the part that you've been waiting for... reading a new chapter. I'm so, so sorry about the long hiatus. Sadly, life got in the way. But, if it helps at all, you should know that it was a GOOD kind of "in the way." It just wasn't exactly conducive to my writing, so I didn't get many opportunities to work on my projects. That being said, I'm back now, and (with any luck) for good with no more big breaks until this story and "The World Through New Eyes" are both finished. Fingers crossed, if you please. Now, with no further ado (because you've waited long enough, really), I hope you enjoy this next installment. Reviews are greatly appreciated.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>April<strong>_

There's an old saying that proclaims: "April showers bring May flowers." In some ways, this was true: the seemingly endless days of gray skies and moderately drizzling rainfall does give way to brightly colored blooms that brighten those already cheery Spring days when they occur. But from my experience, April was sickness weather. Also known as Rachel Berry's uncanny ability to always get a cold before the end of April. Most of the time, I blamed this on the weather: chilly temperature, cold skin from the dewy raindrops, lack of soup. But this time, I knew that my late nights, rigorous film schedule that was _almost _over but _not quite _over, and increased number of kissing scenes with Noah Puckerman (who probably gave me mono instead of a cold from all his "activities") was probably to blame this time around.

Regardless, it was a mid-April afternoon when I was bedridden. Well, _couch-ridden._ I hadn't given in to the temptation of installing a television set in my bedroom, and decided that being sick was an opportunity to catch up to all the original programming along with a few seedy reality shows that I had been missing during my long work days. I was set: remote in hand, tissues nearby, laptop on the table, phone charging on the couch arm next to me, a box of granola bars, and the dehumidifier running with a gentle hum in the corner of the room. I grabbed an afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it around me, snuggling into the hand-crocheted warmth that my father had put hours of love and care into for my benefit (even if the color scheme didn't match my apartment; it was the thought that counted).

I went through my list of programming and selected one of my favorite hour-long dramas, noticed that I had seven more, and commercials to skip, and settled in for the long haul. The first scene, however, was an unexpected surprise. There was a young couple, wrapped up in each others' arms in bed. Two women, to be exact. I felt my heart start pounding and realized that normally, I was not affected this much by love scenes. I saw them for what they were most of the time; two awkward actors trying their best to get it right, even though the scene on their end was far from romantic. On any given set, the situation was usually something like this: camera men looming, directors giving cues that felt entirely unnatural based on their past experience with a romantic partner, and then the settling insecurities that would creep in like unexpected, seriously unwanted house guests. "I brushed my teeth twice, didn't I?" "I shouldn't have had that fourth cup of coffee." "My deodorant smells really strong all of a sudden, am I sweating that badly? Oh God, do they notice that I'm sweating? Am I sweating _on _them?"

This time, however, I was riveted as I watched. I noted their smiles, how natural it seemed, how effortless it was that one girl was stroking the other one's back in that particular manner. Her fingertips seemed so graceful, gliding across skin, never missing a beat. It was almost like reality. Or, at least, what I expected that kind of intimacy, the kind one would find with a "true love" would be like. I felt a shiver suddenly, and knew it wasn't from the cold. Then it dawned on me: I was lonely. I was missing someone. A special someone. Then, I sank further into my couch, realizing one of the biggest mistakes I could have possibly had made: Quinn didn't even know I was sick. Quinn Fabray, my lovely, charming, honest and loyal to a fault _girlfriend_ didn't even know that I was under the weather.

What was my thought process on _that _decision?

Oh. Right. I didn't want to ruin a perfectly good, dangerously new relationship. A relationship that had, so far, gone without the slightest of a hitch. It had happened quite naturally after our day at the beach where we shared our very first kiss. We talked about it, and realized that, in a way, we had been dating without _dating _for months. I called it foreplay; Quinn called it "courting." Quinn always was a romantic. I was quite fond of that side of her, because it was another aspect of her that I found remarkably unique and different. For months, I had been convinced that Quinn was cut from a different mold, and was somehow created in a universe that defied the normal realms of people within our age bracket. She was an old soul, a thinker, a poet... she was special, and to me, she was everything I had ever wanted. She was every romantic lead in every old movie I had fawned over as a child and furthermore, she was quickly becoming my everything. It was a thought that had terrified me originally, and continued to put me in a lulled state of trepidation, but I mostly chalked it up to crazy hormones that came from the stirrings of a new relationship as well as the sickness wracking my body.

I coughed twice, feeling my body absorb the shock and glanced back to the television through my blurry eyes. I wiped at one with the back of my hand and allowed myself to think, only for a moment, about how nice it would be to have Quinn there to soothe my aching back with what I only could assume at this point were skilled fingers. Quinn was the kind of girl, at least from what I knew, who would probably do it without any prompting from me, even though I did like to prompt and prod; it was the actress in me, I couldn't help myself. The scene between the two women had faded, and I felt a slight bit of relief tug at me, as if somehow the visual presence of what I was longing would make me want a little less. I knew, deep down, that this wasn't the case, but many people subscribed to the theory of: "out of sight, out of mind" and I didn't understand why I couldn't do the same. I skipped through the first set of commercials, allowing muscle memory to kick in as I jammed the remote button relentlessly: once, then twice, then three times, a fourth, and then the show started up again. This time, a new scene with the two women, but both of them were dressed. Again, I felt the relief, but mourned the loss when they spoke to each other with quiet words, each of them on the other side of a cafeteria table, their hands quaintly joined in the middle. It was simple affection, but the sigh that it sparked made my chest tighten and caused me to wheeze painfully. Even my breathing was affected during the April sickness, making it almost impossible to do the most basic things like emote without pain.

I was glad that my director had taken some mercy on me. He knew that I was more than dedicated, overly dedicated, truth be told, to both the project and my craft, and understood that if I was sick, there was no way I'd have any ability to give my best performances. My scenes would be ruined, I'd appear lackluster in ways that no makeup could overcome, and I'd be bitchy and horrible to any and all people that crossed my path. I had been honest with him from the first day that my cold symptoms reared their ugly heads, and he told me to take a week, but no more than a week, to get some needed R&R, and then it was back to work for two more weeks until we wrapped filming. Naturally, the first thing I had done upon hearing this was call my fathers, hoping for some magical Jewish cold remedy that apparently didn't exist. Nyquil was what my father swore by, and my other father believed that sleep could kick any bug's ass back to whatever hell it crawled out of.

I wrapped the afghan a little tighter around my body and fought another series of coughs, finding that it hurt less somehow this way, and barely heard my cell phone rumble against the arm of the couch during my struggle. However, once the trembling and the tension passed, I grabbed the small device and slid my finger across the screen. My heart seized, and I felt a jolt course through my stomach. But, for all the minor shock, I couldn't help but smile. It really was too perfect, after all.

_Quinn_. She was thoughtful enough to send me a text just because she was thinking about me. Which really was the entire content of the message. It was simple, just letting me know that I was on her mind, and that she missed hearing from me. I waded over this for a moment before I realized that she'd think I was at work. She wouldn't try to bother me because she wasn't aware of my current predicament. I swallowed, feeling the instant burn that followed as my throat was still rather sore.

_I was a horrible girlfriend. _

I had never aspired to be the best girlfriend in the universe. If I had, then I would have accomplished that years ago. No matter what, I had always worked hard for just about anything I wanted, and kept things strictly on the up-and-up about it. I believed wholeheartedly that hard work, talent, and a brilliant smile could get someone just about anywhere as long as they were passionate enough about it and willing to fight for their dreams. Other actresses in Hollywood took more dubious routes, I knew, but I promised myself before I ever left my hometown that no matter what, I would always be someone that at the end of the day, I could still look in the mirror and be proud of. I wanted to rest easily knowing that some tabloid smear wouldn't catch my fathers' eyes because there was the slightest possibility that it could be true, and now I was breaking all my own rules. Quinn had been nothing but romantic, caring, and completely in-tune with my emotions, which was nearly impossible since I knew that I could be a bit of a diva, even on my better days. Quinn took everything, the ups, downs, stress from work, crazy late nights going over lines with a smile and, if I needed it, with a script in her hand and a smile on her face. She'd run lines with me, pretending to be Noah with a put-on deep voice and delicate hands shoved deep into her pockets just so I'd have the right "ambiance." Before we were dating, we'd always skip over the kissing parts, as Quinn called them, because it was just too soon and too awkward. It was the white elephant in the room that neither of us wanted to address. But since we became an official couple, it seemed that we tended to rehearse the kissing parts more frequently, partly because I was nervous about them and also because I really, really wanted to kiss Quinn, every chance that I got. She never criticized me about it, never complained about my overly affectionate moments, and didn't make any out-of-place comments about moments when I wasn't feeling particularly affectionate.

_Quinn_ was the best girlfriend in the universe. Hands down, that award went to her, assuming there even was an award, and even if it was one of my aspirations, I would never, ever get that prize over her. She was better than anything I deserved, more perfect that anything my imaginative brain could have conjured up, and still I was hiding something so simple as my being under the weather. I knew that at the slightest nudge, Quinn would come swooping into my apartment with soup, tissues, DVDs from Blockbuster and anything else I could possibly want, and she'd refuse to leave until every last sniffle was but a memory.

It was absolutely clear, like fine crystal what I had to do in that very moment: I had to text her back. I didn't want to be too brief, nor did I want to be too verbose. I didn't want to let on about my condition right away, because then she'd worry about why it had taken me so long to inform her. I knew that I had to ease her into it gently because even though Quinn was stalwart, just like knights in their shiniest armor, she was also delicate like a dew-covered spiderweb clinging to a green leaf for its last shred of life. So, I stuck to the basics. I told her hello, said that I had missed her as well, and asked what she was doing.

I barely had to look back to my television program for a minute before my phone buzzed in my hand, signaling an almost immediate reply. It was, truthfully, what I had been expecting: Quinn was always quite prompt. However, I couldn't help but wonder why it seemed that Quinn seldom had anything better to do than text me back or call me whenever I either initiated or followed up on a conversation. I loved that it was likely because I was her main priority. I had always held dearly to the notion that someone could, one day, be fond enough of me to make me the center of their universe. I also never thought such a thing would or could be possible. I knew I had a few desirable traits and characteristics, nor did I lack charm in any way, shape, or form (I thanked my fathers for impeccable grooming), I was also quite attractive. I was a Hollywood actress, and the "biz" was nothing if not notoriously vain. Despite all that, I was also painfully aware of my less desirable characteristics. I frequently talked too much, too fast, and about things that really weren't of interest to "normal" people. I had horrible hours because of my work demands, and when I wasn't working, it wasn't at all unlikely that my agent would call me up about this gala or that event where I was meant to make an appearance. I had to drop everything to do those types of things, and I knew that most normal people wouldn't feel up to shoving on a dress or a tux and just showing up to a major Hollywood event, even if it was to be on my arm. That proved to be a deal breaker in more than one of my failed attempts at dating. I was loud, boisterous, kind of a snob, and had champagne tastes that again could be attributed to my "diva" persona. I could also be horribly needy, especially while sick, and wanted to spare Quinn from this, even though so far she hadn't taken offense, even slightly to any of my aforementioned "bad" attributes.

Her text, worded in a way that was pure craftsmanship and totally Quinn was simple: _I was lying down at home, thinking of you, wanting to be with you, etc. etc. Would you be opposed to such a thing happening?_

My answer was one word. A simple, hopefully resounding (via text message, at least), _no_. Then, I slipped in that she might not want to spend time with me, because I had acquired some horrible taxation on my immune system and could be quite cranky while not feeling up to par. It took even less than a minute for me to receive that reply. From there, my day couldn't have gone any direction. As I predicted, Quinn told me that she'd get "supplies" and be over before I could grow to miss her any more than I already did, then tacked on that she was only "assuming" that I did, in fact, miss her. What she didn't know, and what I didn't say, despite wanting to, was that it was impossible for me to miss her any second that she was away from me. Any moment that she wasn't near felt empty somehow, even if we had just said our goodbyes. It had been so little time since we had been an official couple, even if we were the only ones who knew (although Quinn did hint that she would be telling her mother at some point in the increasingly near future), and yet already I felt that she was a permanent fixture in my life. She was a piece that couldn't be replaced by anyone or anything else other than her and the fantastic way that merely her existence made me feel.

It took Quinn forty-five minutes to get to my apartment, and forty-two of that was spent with me finishing up my first show and missing her all the while, despite her insistence that I didn't, and request that I try not not to. I knew she was being playful, but more than that I knew that she knew that missing her made me wistful, and she felt that wistful was akin to being sad, and sad was one of the worst emotions I could experience, especially in situations that had to do with her. Apparently she had decided that it was her job to ensure my happiness, and every time I tried to argue, she'd generally do something ridiculously silly until all I could do was belly-laugh until it hurt or kiss the argument away until I forgot my own name and where I was, other than in her arms.

I jumped up from the couch but kept the afghan wrapped around me, not wanting to catch a chill from outside when I opened my apartment door. Quinn stood outside with a box of what I presumed to be baked goods perched on the flat of her left hand like a waiter, and carried a bag full of what appeared to be two large, clear containers of soup.

"You brought good things, didn't you?" I asked, unable to contain my smile. "Little did you know that I'm now requesting all visitors provide me with some form of sustenance prior to entering my humble abode."

"Oh, I knew," Quinn said with a cheeky smile. "I'm fluent in Rachel Berry, despite what she may think. I can even read her through text messages."

"You're brilliant," I cooed.

"No, just eager to please. But, if you'd like to dote on me, continue."

"Come inside," I insisted. I wrapped the afghan tighter around myself and reached out to tug her, by the shirt, into my apartment. I closed the door behind her and stalked back to the couch where I plopped down unceremoniously and reached for the remote. "I don't know what kind of company I'll be, but I really am happy to see you."

"I don't mind what kind of company you are at all, Rachel. I'm just happy to be in your presence," Quinn said. "Thanks for having me over. I kind of understand your reluctance; I've been told I'm a terror when I'm feeling sick. Did you want me to put these in the kitchen?"

"What's in the box, Quinn?"

"Pastries, an assortment from your favorite bakery off La Brea," Quinn replied. "And then there's yellow curry, vegetarian, and Tom Yum soup from that Thai place you like on 5th – also vegetarian."

"You're too good to me, stop it," I said, chuckling slightly and feeling my cheeks grow hotter. I figured that it was because I was blushing, but wasn't ruling out the possibility that I was developing a fever. "I don't have anything to give you in return but access to my television set and couch, and you won't even be able to pick what programming we watch; I have a hierarchy when I'm playing catch-up."

"That's perfectly all right," Quinn said. "I didn't know if you were feeling nauseous or if you were hungry at all. Did you want me to get any of this out for you?"

"I'd take some of the curry, if you're feeling so inclined," I said. I moved toward one side of the couch instead of occupying the middle space, knowing that Quinn might feel unwelcome and choose to sit in the chair. Even though I was sick and generally detested having people in my personal space, I found that I quite wanted Quinn to be closer as opposed to farther away. I wanted her to be right next to me, even though perhaps that was an irresponsible decision on my part: it wasn't as if she was immune to sickness. At least, as far as I knew.

Quinn nodded and disappeared into my kitchen. I browsed my DVR and picked the next show that I, and now she, would be watching. It was another of my weekly hour-long dramas, and I knew it tended to go toward the melodramatic, and had a brief pang of hoping that my smart, insightful, and slightly hip to the scene (and by that, I meant "hipster") girlfriend wouldn't judge me for less than artistic tastes in programming. I hit play and got lost in the scenes from the previous episode that they showed before anything new started, and Quinn came back into the living room, setting a bowl of the delicious looking and smelling (even though previously, my sense of smell had been hindered) curry in front of me. She cradled her own bowl and moved to go toward the chair off to the right of the couch, as I expected she might, but I stopped her before she could sit down and be comfortable.

"Unless it bothers you, and if it does, I'd completely understand, you can sit next to me. I'll do my best not to contaminate you," I said quietly, hoping that she wouldn't choose the chair anyway. My emotions tended to run amok when I was in a more fragile physical state, and I certainly didn't want her to be on the receiving end of hysterical theatrics and crying. Not that such a thing would happen, but I didn't want to rule it out.

"I just want to make sure you're comfortable, Rach," Quinn purred. She looked at me for a moment, almost as if she was waiting for some sign that I was lying for her benefit, putting the offer out there but not being truly serious, or something along those lines. I watched her nod, probably to herself, and her lips pursed ever so slightly. She was doing a dance, a tango, inside her head, making that final decision, although I didn't know what options she was weighing. At least, I didn't know them at any depth, just on the surface based on the choices I had given her. Quinn tapped her fingers against the bowl and then moved toward the couch. I breathed a sigh of relief internally and leaned forward to get my own bowl and spoon that was placed inside. I cradled it, just as Quinn did, and scooted more toward her, hoping that this closer distance wouldn't be opposed by the stunning blonde next to me.

"I'm even more comfortable now," I said. "Because you're here."

"I'm glad," Quinn said. "You don't know how long it took me to decide to pester you today. I really didn't want to intrude, because I figured that your silence meant you had something on your plate. Which, apparently, you did. I'm sorry that you're sick."

"Please don't apologize. That man-whore probably did it to me," I retorted without thinking. Then, almost immediately, I withdrew. "That was rude. Stupid hormones."

Quinn's musical laughter resounded over the television, and she maneuvered gracefully so that she balanced her soup bowl with one hand and placed her free hand over mine. Our eyes met for a second, and she grinned.

"I like your candor," Quinn said. "Don't ever hold back who you are for what you perceive to be my benefit."

"I frequently worry about that kind of thing," I confessed. Something about Quinn always brought out my honesty, in one way or another. "I don't want to offend you."

"I'm not easily offended. I just choose not to swear because I don't think it suits me. But, if you recall, there have been a few times when I slip."

"Angels can slip? Who knew?" I teased.

"Oh, I'm no angel," Quinn protested, a blush starting to stain her cheeks ever so slightly. I wondered if it was from the curry for a minute, but then noted that she hadn't even taken her first bite. I felt my chest swell with pride at the purely physical reaction that she had to me, that something as simple as words leaving my lips, even if they were flattering and not of a more lascivious nature, could cause. "But thank you for the compliment."

"You're beautiful like one," I continued. "Ethereal, and you always have this glow about you. It's kind of ridiculous, and would continue to be if I wasn't so enamored with it, and you. You speak softly, and sometimes Quinn, I swear, when you walk... you float. You don't even walk on the ground."

"But I do walk on the ground," Quinn insisted. "Just like normal people. I have scuffs on my shoes to prove it. I'm a foot shuffler. I've been trying to break that habit since I was six."

"Funny," I said. "I never would have pegged you for a foot shuffler."

Quinn grinned sheepishly, then finally took a spoonful of the curry into her mouth.

"Guilty," she said, after swallowing. "What are we watching, anyway?"

"Oh, God... why did you have to ask that?"

"It's not that horrible show about New Jersey, is it?" Quinn asked, eyebrow quirked almost as high as the ceiling. "Because you are my girlfriend, and while I adore you, I really do require that you have some taste that isn't base and completely ridiculous."

"You'd leave me if I watched _Jersey Shore_?" I asked playfully.

"That's what it's called? Hmm. It even has a simplistic title," Quinn said, falling into her tangent mode that I found completely adorable. "That _isn't _what we're watching, right?"

"Oh hell no, I do actually watch quality television," I replied. "No, this show is one of my favorites. I've been following it ever since it started, and I'm really quite obsessed. It's kind of ridiculous, and I hope you'll keep in mind how endearing you find me when we start watching it, especially if you hate it or if there are preconceived notions clouding your-"

"You know I hate interrupting," Quinn said suddenly, effectively cutting me off. I found it to be interesting instead of annoying because Quinn was one of few people who could shut me up, especially when I really got going. "What are we watching? Briefly, if we would, before it actually starts."

"_True Blood_," I said quietly. "Are you at all familiar?"

"I've read the books," Quinn said. "I've never watched the show, but I'd imagine it to be a fairly decent guilty pleasure, if nothing else."

"So, you don't hate it?"

"Why would I hate it?" Quinn asked. Then, she took another bite of curry and settled back into the couch, getting comfortable for a longer stint than she was probably initially prepared for; I planned to work her up to how long she'd be actually be sitting there, ease her into it a little. "I haven't given it a proper chance."

"I'm happy you feel that way," I said. "I've got five episodes to watch."

"Five? That's..."

I chuckled at her comical expression: eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, eyebrows both shot upward and her hand barely holding onto her spoon.

"Five hours, I know. You can leave at any time, you know, if you're bored," I said, giving her the respectful out. "But, if you do decide to stay, eventually I'm going to finish this curry and then you can hold me. If you want."

"But you aren't feeling well," Quinn replied.

"I know, which means I call the shots," I said.

"You always call the shots," Quinn teased.

"Perhaps, but most definitely while I'm not feeling well. Do you want to hold me or not?"

I would have missed the slight upward quirk of her lips if I wasn't staring directly at her. I quite loved staring at her, even if I knew it was probably rude, at least on some levels. She never protested, so I didn't plan to stop.

"Yes, ma'am," Quinn teased. I set the remote on the coffee table in front of the couch and started in on my curry, feeling more determined than before to finish, and hoped Quinn felt the same. The show started, and I watched as she watched intently, seemingly wanting to get absorbed into the plot, even though she was jumping right into the middle of the season, which was the most recent, at that. I knew she'd be a little lost, but I was more than happy to explain, and she had read the books.

When we hit the halfway point of the first episode, Quinn put her hand on my leg, patiently waiting for me to finish my bowl. She set hers on the coffee table and let out a little happy sigh that caused a chill to course down my spine.

For being ill, I had never felt better.

And when I got better, I knew we'd no doubt address my taste in television and movies more in-depth. Especially if she planned to stick around for the entirety of my sickness.

Which brought about another major issue.

I hoped that Quinn liked vampires.


End file.
